


Pompeii

by SaunterVaguely



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Chris has a dirty mouth, M/M, Multi, Post-Apocalypse, Rimming, Zombie Apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-09-16
Packaged: 2017-12-21 00:08:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaunterVaguely/pseuds/SaunterVaguely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off a prompt from tumblr: there's a zombie apocalypse, and the humans and werewolves of Beacon Hills have teamed up to survive. Years later, Chris finds someone he never expected to see again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Mister Argent? We're going on a perimeter run to the west; you want to check traps in the east quarter?" Scott shouldered a bag and blinked hopefully at Chris, cheeks dimpling when Allison joined him.

The hunter raised a brow at the obnoxiously saccharine look the two exchanged, but he nodded and grabbed a bag of his own- wire, branch clippers, bait and ammo. "I'm on it. But you two- no screwing around out there. Hear me?"

"C'mon, dad," Allison grinned impudently at him as she tugged Scott away by his sleeve. "If we were gonna screw around, we'd bring Isaac."

Chris groaned and tried to erase the comment from his mind as he headed out past the fortified gates of their camp. He nodded at Stilinski, the former sheriff, who was up in the watchtower with a rifle, keeping lookout. As he reached the trees, he passed the sheriff's son, Stiles, the hyperactive one, walking back to camp with Derek, their resident Alpha. He ignored them since they appeared to be deeply involved in a heated debate about- knots? Something about knots. He didn't want to know. He kept walking.

It was only three years since what Stiles and Scott still persisted in calling the "zombie apocalypse". More mature people (everyone other than Stiles and Scott) called the undead humans "runners", due to their surprising speed and swift attacks. A single infected bite had quickly sent the world into chaos, people turning on each other with as much ferocity as the creatures themselves. Oddly enough, Beacon Hills had dealt with the whole ordeal rather well- the hunters and werewolves were pretty much already prepared for the event. They'd kept the infection away, killed off any runners that came for them, hunted for food in the woods. Then the government, or what was left of it, had caught onto their not-so-little secret. Agents had descended, capturing werewolves and using some high-tech chip implant that allowed them to use the wolves as their own hunting dogs, siccing them on the runners again and again and again until they fell and were killed. The humans and remaining wolves, including the Argents, Stilinskis, McCalls, Deaton, and Lydia Martin, had worked to come up with a way to help their friends, eventually cobbling together some devices that could safely remove the chips. They rescued Derek and his betas (except Peter, who had disappeared as soon as the government showed up), and retreated to the mountain forests of Oregon, safe and isolated. They set up their little camp, fortified it, and kept each other safe. Erica and Boyd had even managed to set up their own little outpost a few miles up the nearest mountain, and kept communications going with a few other werewolf liberating groups out there. 

 

Chris only encountered one runner on his trip toward the outer reaches of their territory, a slow-moving woman missing an arm. He took her down quick and quiet with his knife, dragged the corpse under a tree to get it out of the way. Checking the snares as he went along, he found a rabbit, neck neatly snapped. He tied it to his belt, reset the trap with his kit and moved on. Most of the others were untouched, one or two tripped but empty. One of the larger traps had snagged a runner, the twine snaring its ankle and flipping it into the air with enough force to break its spine. It hung there limply, and Chris slipped his knife into the creature's neck and twisted until he was certain before cutting it down and dragging it away. At the farthest edge of the woodland they'd carved out for themselves, the spotted another trap with a runner caught in it. This one was alive, gently swaying, suspended upside-down from the tree, twitching occasionally. Chris crouched silently into the bushes, immediately scanning the area for more of them as he drew his knife with one hand and his pistol with the other.

"I can hear you," a voice called out. "Smell you, too."

Chris blinked in alarm, because the voice was definitely coming from the hanging runner, which couldn't possibly be a runner because runners couldn't talk, and because he recognized that dryly sardonic tone. He stood slowly, slipping the knife back into its sheath but keeping the gun handy, and circled around to get a look at the man's face.

Peter Hale was thinner than the last time Chris had seen him- he could even be called gaunt- and what had once been a meticulously groomed goatee was now a scruffy beard. His clothes were filthy, the pants too short and the shirt torn in a dozen places, but his eyes were no less piercing than they'd always been. He watched the hunter approach with all the cool wariness of a wild creature that was weighing the choices between attacking its captor or gnawing through its own leg to escape.

"Yeah, I thought that was you," Peter said as Chris came into view. "Of course, it would have to be you, wouldn't it?"

Chris narrowed his eyes, not lowering his gun, and asked the werewolf what he meant by that.

"Well, come on, Chris, let's be honest." The suspended man tried to shrug, but his arms didn't seem quite up to the task. "Any of the others would cut me down, take me back to whatever camp you've got going, ask me some questions- or at least cut me down and give me a fighting chance before they killed me." He grinned, sickly and humorless. "Not you. You're gonna put me down just like this, like an animal in a trap."

Chris didn't move, didn't waver. "You are an animal in a trap."

Peter sighed, arms dangling. "Yeah, set myself up for that one."

"What are you doing here, Peter?" The hunter demanded, not willing to play whatever game the other man might have in mind. 

The oldest surviving Hale raised a brow. "I'd heard there was a group of crazy people saving werewolves and living in the woods up here- it sounded familiar." He pursed his lips, calm and collected. "I figured I'd come by, say hello."

"I'm sure you did." Chris replied flatly. On a hunch, he circled back around the slowly-rotating man, pulling out his knife once more and seeing the instant tension that stiffened Peter's spine. He let Peter feel the cold silver-edged steel against his skin for just a second, a warning, before he sliced open the threadbare shirt, opening it up and exposing the werewolf's back. Sure enough, at the base of Peter's neck was the small bump that marked the spot where the chip was embedded. Chris sighed heavily.

"When did they get you?"

Peter strained briefly against gravity's pull, giving up and letting himself hang once more. "First day they showed up in town. Hit me with about 900,000 volts, knocked me out cold."

Chris ignored the pinch of guilt at the realization that that meant Peter had been in the same lab they'd liberated the rest of the pack from; they hadn't bothered to look for Peter because they'd all assumed he had disappeared under his own steam. He shook it off; Peter was his own responsibility, regardless of any truce or even unspoken respect they'd managed to achieve before. He touched the raised skin on the werewolf's neck, noting the brief shudder it prompted. "How'd you get away, then?" 

The way the chips worked was by sending a constant current of electricity through the unfortunate being they'd been implanted in. When the werewolves stepped past perimeters set up by the government, the current grew stronger, pulsing agony through their hosts until they had to crawl back to their proper location. 

"It's broken," Peter said. "It goes off every five minutes no matter what I'm doing or where I am. I got used to it enough to run."

Chris nodded; that explained how the normally cunning and canny man would have been distracted enough to fall into a snare. He didn't want to admit it, but he was impressed- Peter had managed to travel hundreds of miles on his own, in continuous pain, all for the uncertain promise of home, of belonging. Even as he watched, tremors started to shake the werewolf's body, until Peter was jerking in place and letting out small, involuntary grunts of hurt, his eyes flashing blue and his teeth sharpening as the jolts coursed through him. Moving automatically (foolishly, he would think afterward), Chris reached out to carefully cradle the werewolf's head, relieving some of the strain on his convulsing spine. Peter snarled, eyes rolling back in his head, hands twitching spasmodically in the air as the hunter held him. Slowly, shakily, he settled, his eyes shifting back to their usual arctic blue, his teeth returning to normal. 

"Sorry about that," he rasped, blinking away tears as his palms healed slowly from where his claws had pierced them.

Chris looked at him, considering. "When's the last time you ate?"

"About a week ago," Peter replied, clearing his throat. "Found an abandoned camper with some canned goods inside."

The human raised a brow. "Why not just hunt something?"

A dry, hacking laugh. "And eat it raw? Chris, that's disgusting."

Chris couldn't help the amused snort that burst from him; some things didn't change, and it seemed Peter's fastidious eating habits were one of them. He thought, rather suddenly and unexpectedly, of the box of stovetop macaroni- the really good stuff, with creamy cheese sauce- he'd had saved, hidden away in the wall of his cabin for the last three months. He pictured the way Peter's eyes would light up at the sight of it, the teasing implications that he must have saved it for a special occasion. 

Peter tensed again when the hunter reached up and began sawing at the cord. "What're you doing?"

The snare gave way, sending the werewolf tumbling to the ground. Chris bent down and helped him up, turning back toward the camp.

"Taking you home."

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I lied- I had to break the second chapter into two parts because it just got stupid long. So the smut will be in the third chapter.

The walk back to camp took considerably longer than the walk out, since Peter dropped to the ground every five minutes and convulsed while Chris stood over him and kept watch. The sun was dangerously close to setting by the time they spotted the gates. Chris waved the all-clear signal at the sheriff in the watchtower, and Stilinski nodded them through, more focused on his surveillance than questioning the newcomer. 

The first one to notice their return inside the camp was Stiles, who came wandering over with a quizzical tilt to his head, squinting at Peter. The werewolf seemed to brace himself, straightening (he had been leaning a bit against Chris up to that point), as the kid approached. 

"Is that-" Stiles halted and quite suddenly burst into giggles. "Oh my god, you have a beard. Like an actual _beard_."

"And you have no idea how relieved I am to see that you have yet to attempt facial hair," Peter replied dryly.

"Haha. It's like your wit grew with your mountain man scruff," Stiles rolled his eyes and stepped past them, waving vaguely toward the back of the compound. "Cora made venison stew; it's pretty good and there should be some left if you hurry." 

Chris nodded. "We'll head over there after we stop by the med tent."

The med tent was the largest of the four remaining tents in their camp; they were still hesitantly transitioning to cabins, all working together to build them. Melissa and Deaton worked together when medical emergencies rose, which they rarely did with almost half the camp's population able to immediately heal on their own. Deaton was also in charge of the patch of earth behind the tent, which had started off as herbs and wild onions and grown to a full-on vegetable garden. The vet had said he hoped to work on getting some fruit growing as well. 

Melissa was still in the tent, cleaning one of the tables they'd scrounged up. She looked up when they entered, and the rag she'd been scrubbing with dropped from her hand. "Oh." 

Peter waved, trying for his usual grin. "Hi there."

She came around the table, staring. "You're alive? How on earth-?" Her curious gaze became a frown as she took in the werewolf's emaciated state. She turned to look at Chris, who cleared his throat and nodded at the back of Peter's neck. Peter sighed and bared his spine for the nurse to see. Her frown deepened when she noticed the chip. "Right. Hang on." She went to the back flap of the tent and called for Alan before heading for the rough shelves in one corner, where they kept the surgical tools. 

Deaton came in looking curious, and when he spotted the newly-arrived man he did little more than raise his eyebrows. "Peter. This is a surprise."

"For both of us, really," Peter replied, allowing himself to be hoisted onto the table, face-down. He barely weighed a thing, and Chris lifted him easily. 

Melissa doused her hands in alcohol while Deaton rubbed a soaked swab over the patch of raised skin, cleaning away a small swath of grime to make way for the operation. Peter shifted uncomfortably, fingers twitching, and Chris realized that the other man still had a hand wrapped around his wrist. When he glanced down at Peter, the werewolf wouldn't meet his eyes, so he didn't say anything. 

The tools Melissa brought over were simple: a magnet, a silver-edged scalpel, and forceps. She laid them out on a strip of cloth on the table and bit her lip, eyeing the dwindling box of painkillers they had left. "Do you need a shot of morphine before we-?"

Peter shook his head, eyes blankly focused on the wall of the tent. "Just do it."

She nodded. Deaton stepped in behind her, swab at the ready, and Chris took a breath. Swiftly, Melissa sliced the blade across the sterilized skin, and Peter winced as his flesh parted to reveal the chip, a shiny fleck of metal and wire twined around his seventh cervical vertebra. She set the scalpel down and reached for the magnet, ready to deactivate the chip, when a crackle of electricity shot from it, visible sparks dancing along the edges of the wound. Peter jerked and shook, and before he realized it Chris had clasped his free hand around the fingers that had latched onto his wrist, squeezing comfortingly even as he snapped, "Do it!" 

Melissa jumped a little but quickly pressed the magnet to the sparking chip, which died with a final sputter. She reached in with the forceps and pried the wires free, Peter gritting his teeth and clutching harder and harder at Chris' wrist. With a final twist and a loud snap, the chip came free, and Melissa flicked it into the dish that Alan held in one hand while the vet cleaned the wound with the other. Peter panted in relief and Chris let out the breath he hadn't been aware of holding. 

"Much obliged," the werewolf said as he sat up, the cut already closing. 

Melissa nodded, and Deaton patted their patient on the arm. "Glad to have you back," the vet said evenly, adding, "Get some food and rest, both of you."

Chris led Peter through the tents and cabins (passing Lydia, who halted, turned around, and walked away quickly without addressing them) toward the pantry and kitchen. The smell of hearty cooking was thick in the air as they approached, and their stomachs gave simultaneous growls. Chris tugged the door open and they stepped inside, only to halt when they caught sight of the occupants. 

Scott, Allison and Isaac were seated on one side of the long, rough-hewn table, Derek and Stiles on the other. Cora stood in front of the stove, stirring something with a wooden spoon. All of them were staring at the pair that had just walked in. 

"Holy shit," Scott said bluntly. 

"Or 'hello', as people used to say," Peter offered with an attempt at his old roguish charm. 

Derek made a derisive snorting sound and jabbed mercilessly at his bowl of stew, his eyes flashing red and a low growl rumbling in his chest, and Allison cleared her throat and shifted in her seat. Peter sighed in a woefully put-upon manner and turned toward Cora, who was already holding out two bowls with a deadpan expression. They accepted them, nodding gratefully, and sat at the table. Most of the kids looked ready to bolt, but Isaac was actually grinning, practically bouncing in his seat.

"We thought you were gone for good!" 

"Hoped, really," Derek muttered.

"Hurtful, Derek," Peter batted his sunken eyes at the alpha, who grunted and went back to his meal. 

"So," Allison pushed her food around with her spoon, tone deceptively light. "Where exactly have you been all this time?"

Before Peter could answer (no doubt in his typically flippant manner), Chris cleared his throat and tapped the back of his neck with two fingers, the recognized signal in their group for the microchips. Everyone at the table went quiet, Allison's gaze dropping and Scott blinking his big sad puppy eyes at Peter when the older man wasn't looking. 

Eventually, Stiles apparently couldn't take the quiet. "Okay, sad and stuff, but can we talk about the beard? Is the beard not fantastic?"

Isaac's lips tugged up into a bit of a smirk. "It looks... um, rugged?"

Peter huffed a laugh and took a bite from his bowl. "Terribly sorry I didn't stop and groom myself during my daring escape from the government."

"It could look good," Cora piped up, squinting critically at her uncle. "Maybe with some trimming. You could probably make it work."

"Oh, I could make it work," Peter said immediately, sitting up a little straighter. "I can make anything work. I could make it work so easily it would give Tim Gunn a heart attack." He paused. "Or possibly an erection."

That got a general round of laughter, whether it was derisive or genuinely amused. The meal passed with a little more ease after that, the kids making small talk and Peter attempting to subtly inhale his stew. Chris was the only one that noticed, and when the other man had emptied his bowl, the hunter silently pushed his own half-finished dish over to him. Peter looked surprised, but didn't meet Chris' eyes as he dug in again. 

Finished, they both stood and bid their remaining companions goodbye before leaving the cookhouse. Peter stretched, making a pleased sound, and Chris couldn't help noting the way his hollow ribs rippled under his skin, just above his belly (which was now slightly distended thanks to what was no doubt the first decent meal he'd had in months). He also couldn't help noticing that the werewolf was still filthy. 

"We have razors, if you want to get cleaned up," he offered, sticking his hands into his pockets and nodding toward the cabin they affectionately referred to as "the bathhouse". It was one of the two structures that had been there originally, and after some fussing about they'd gotten the plumbing mostly working. 

Peter turned to look at him, wide-eyed. "Tell me you have soap."

Chris chuckled. "We have soap _and_ hot water."

The werewolf made a choked sound that was almost a whimper, grabbed Chris with both hands, and kissed him.

The hunter's hand was wrapped around the hilt of his knife by the time he realized that he wasn't being attacked, and he froze in a moment of complete panic. It appeared he wasn't alone, though- Peter seemed to have noticed what he was doing, and he tensed up, stepping back and releasing the other man.

It wasn't that Chris had never imagined kissing Peter, or Peter kissing him- they were too similar, too mirrored, and all the surviving they'd done together when the whole mess had started... and maybe he had noticed the quiet Hale boy that had followed them everywhere back before the fire, and been curious even then... It wasn't that he had never entertained the idea. 

It was more that the kiss happened because of _soap and hot water_. 

To his credit, Peter's expression was perfectly schooled when he stood back, and he glanced toward the cabin Chris had indicated. "That one?"

Chris nodded once, trying to keep his own face neutral. "Should be empty." He took another step back, resting most of his weight on one leg. "I'll- find you some clothes."

"No flannel, please," the werewolf called over his shoulder as he trotted away. "And absolutely no camo!"

The hunter grunted something vaguely insulting under his breath as he headed to his own cabin. He dug through the clean clothes he had, coming up with a pair of relatively unscathed dark jeans and a black shirt. He was tempted to bring something plaid, just to see Peter's reaction, but realized that would likely result in the werewolf's childish refusal to wear any shirt at all. Probably not a good idea at the moment.

He took his time getting to the bathhouse, pausing to talk when he caught sight of the sheriff making his way toward the food cabin. "Peter's back," he started matter-of-factly. 

"So I noticed," Stilinski replied, hands in the pockets of his bulky jacket. "How's his behavior?" The two of them had always been frank with each other; both concerned fathers trying to look out for their reckless children and keep their little community safe. 

Chris cocked his head, considered, and shrugged. "I think at the moment he's mostly relieved to be here, but he's Peter. I really can't say more than that."

"Come on, Argent, of all the people here you were always the best at getting a read on him. Just give me what you have." The sheriff looked Chris dead-on, his expression demanding the truth. 

The hunter sighed and rubbed his forehead, dropping his gaze to the ground. "...I think... I think he's scared we're going to send him away. I think at this point he's too terrified to have an angle, but he's gonna act like he always does to throw us off just in case."

Stilinski continued to stare at him for a few moments, his jaw moving back and forth as he worked the statement over in his mind. "Fine. I say he stays for now, and we talk it over in a few days." Most big decisions in the camp were made by Chris, the sheriff, Melissa, Deaton and Lydia. 

Chris nodded. "Where should we put him?"

"The spare bunks are all full. And I don't think Derek or Scott would be willing to let him stay in the pack cabins."

Chris nodded again, then stopped and groaned as he caught on. "You want me to put him up."

"You're the best option. You've got space, and I trust you to keep an eye on him." The sheriff looked unapologetic, apparently not knowing or caring about the seething sexual identity crisis that was raging under the hunter's skin. 

Gritting his teeth, Chris agreed grudgingly. "Fine." He shifted the bundle of clothes under one arm and glanced toward the bathhouse once more. "I'll go tell him."

The windows of the small cabin were fogged up when he reached it, and he hesitated, glancing around himself subconsciously before knocking and entering. The interior of the bathhouse was simple- four showers on one side, three deep, solid tubs on the other, a line of sinks in the back. 

Peter was standing in front of one of the sinks, towel around his waist and peering into a mirror as he ran his fingers through his newly-trimmed beard, clipped down to a tidy dark line accentuating his jaw; not the goatee of before but not the recent scruffy mess either. His skin looked scrub-softened, pink and clean from the shower, and Chris cursed himself for noticing. 

"Those for me?" Peter turned, nodding at the clothes. 

Chris made a sound that was vaguely affirmative, trying to keep his eyes from following the shift of muscle under the werewolf's skin or the track of a water droplet as it slid down lean, rippling ribs. He thrust the clothing forward, and Peter came sauntering toward him to take them.

Their fingers brushed (very definitely deliberate) and both took a breath (possibly involuntary). The half-naked man's lips lifted in a slow, coy grin, and he stepped back and let the towel drop. He didn't even bother to look apologetic or embarrassed, just toed it aside and bent to pull the pants up. 

And very suddenly, Chris got it.

Realization clicked into place, images and memories of past behavior flashing past his mind's eye. He'd said it himself: Peter was terrified of being turned away. He was a survivor, through and through, and he was trying to do whatever he needed to keep surviving. In this situation, it appeared that "whatever he needed" was to bribe Chris with sex. He was trying to seduce the hunter and play on that, not with any grand plan to turn it on him, but with the frantic hope that it would keep him endeared to one of the more influential camp leaders. Rather than enraging Chris, rather than making him furious at the thought of being used, he felt an overwhelming sadness for what he'd seen building between them before. He wanted Peter- he'd come to terms with that- but the idea that Peter might have only acted on that desire out of desperation, might never have wanted him back, made him feel hollowly disappointed. 

He sighed and crossed his arms over his chest, finally making eye contact with the werewolf. "We're not doing this."

Peter straightened, buttoning the too-large pants around his hips and squinting questioningly at the hunter. 

"We're not doing this here, or now," Chris amended. "You're going to get dressed," he made a mental note to find his new roommate some underwear. "And we're going back to my cabin- you're staying with me, by the way, and you _are_ staying- and we're going to talk."

The werewolf nodded slowly, looking quelled as he slipped the shirt over his head. He followed the hunter back out into the camp, through the lengthening shadows cast by the trees and cabins, to the place Chris had made his own. It was one of the smaller structures, but it was comforting in its coziness and stability. He had even added a few homy details over the years: a blanket that Isaac had knitted, a mug Allison had made (World's Best Hunter/Dad), a few drawings from various kids they'd helped save, a group photo in a frame on the small desk in the corner. He glanced almost anxiously toward the place he had the mac and cheese hidden.

He gestured toward the camp bed he'd dragged in and set up, and Peter sank onto it with a faint groan, clearly grateful for the respite. Chris took a seat on his own bed, opposite him. 

"Okay," he started, resting his elbows on his knees. "First off, you're here on a trial run. You're in here with me because I'm going to be watching you, and if you start anything we'll boot you no matter what we-" he gestured between them, "-might have going on. The safety of the camp as a whole comes before everything else."

Peter shrugged and nodded, understanding, probably having anticipated such a statement. 

"Secondly," Chris continued, "Clearly you're aware that I'm... attracted... to you," he tried valiantly to sound as clinical about it as he could. "And I wouldn't be averse to- acting on that."

Peter sat up a little straighter, eyebrow lifting. 

"But," the human added in a firm tone, "I would be absolutely averse to anything that happened being one-sided. This isn't some prison system where you have to blow me for food and smokes."

"Smoking's a nasty habit anyway," Peter quipped weakly.

Chris stood, exasperated by the flippant response, and walked to the door. "Get some sleep. I'll be back later."

"I am-" A faltering voice called him back, and when he glanced over his shoulder he saw Peter staring up at him from the bed, eyes wide and fearful. "I am. Attracted to you. It's not just one-sided." He dropped his gaze, shifted further onto the bed. "Just so you know."

Chris swallowed hard and let out a breath before nodding once. "Good to know."

 


	3. Chapter 3

 

Peter settled into the camp with surprising ease. He was careful not to provoke anyone (anymore than he could help) and offered to help where he could. The newer members of the camp, those that hadn't known him before, found him charming and polite, a few even describing him as "sweet" (which got a snort from the people that knew him better). He avoided a few people, mostly sticking to Chris or hanging around Cora, helping her cook when she allowed it. Chris made a very definite point to keep from acting overly friendly with him, to the point that he barely acknowledged the werewolf in front of the others. He couldn't help pausing from time to time and watching, though, especially when Peter happened to be doing something particularly endearing like baking muffins or giving one of the kids a piggyback ride around camp or chopping wood with his shirt off...

It was Allison who eventually confronted her father, sidling up to him while he was hanging laundry on the line that stretched between his cabin and Deaton's. 

She cleared her throat to get his attention, swaying on the balls of her feet. "Dad... you know it's okay for you and Peter to be a bit more... um, open."

He halted, a pair of socks in his hands, and turned to look at her with a wary squint. He didn't respond verbally due to the two wooden clips held between his teeth, but his expression conveyed his question well enough. 

Allison huffed and stood still, hands on her hips. "You guys might think you're being subtle, but you're really, really not. In fact, it's actually more annoying to watch you two try to act like you're ignoring each other than it would be to see you actually acting like a couple."

Chris spat out the clips. "But we're not-"

"Dad. Please." Allison held out a hand to stop his protest. "Just sit down and talk it out or something, okay? We're all fine with it; we're just tired of being treated like blind idiots." 

Before he could argue further, she about-faced and trotted away, leaving her father to stare after her in impotent indignity before bending to gather more clothes. A sound off to his right made him turn to see Peter and Isaac returning from a hunting trip. The older wolf had a friendly arm slung around the younger, and both were grinning victoriously, carrying a stag over their shoulders together. Peter's arms and chest were dappled with blood, and Chris had the sudden driving need to go over there and lick him clean, to taste copper and sweat and skin, regardless of who saw. A tearing sound made him blink down at the shirt in his hands, which he'd managed to rip with white-knuckled fingers. The noise caught the werewolves' attentions, Isaac tilting his head curiously and Peter glancing toward the hunter and away quickly, his brow furrowed. Chris dropped the shirt and ducked behind some hanging sheets.

Right, he needed a plan.

Fortunately, he was an Argent. He was very, very good at planning.

When Peter got back to their shared cabin that evening, grumbling to himself over getting blood on one of his favorite (only) shirts, his stomach rumbling irritably thanks to the dinner he'd missed to help rebuild a fence (not his idea, but Derek had growled at him until he'd "volunteered"). He was prepared, as usual, to spend the remaining night being ignored by his housemate, and was so focused on his own disgruntled mindset to catch the scent coming from the cabin until he walked in. 

Chris had dragged the desk into the center of the small space, draped a blanket over it, and set it with dishes and plastic ware borrowed from Cora. He had briefly considered trying to get ahold of some candles, but then realized that fire would probably be a bit of a mood-killer for someone that had been set ablaze multiple times. A steaming pot of creamy mac and cheese was nestled between the two plates, and he'd even gotten his hands on a couple of Cokes from the remains of a campsite a few miles away (there wasn't much point in trying for beer since it wouldn't do anything for his inhuman date). 

"What," Peter managed, blinking at the setup.

Chris cleared his throat and pulled a chair out for his companion, subconsciously running his free hand down what he considered his best shirt (which basically meant the shirt with the least holes). "Dinner?"

Peter blinked again, still thrown, and sat slowly. "Sure." He glanced at the meal, his mouth watering despite a vague sense of suspicion at the offer. He sniffed at the wisps of steam, trying to check for wolfsbane or any other insidious ingredients. All he could smell was the gooey cheese, and some wild garlic from Deaton's garden, and his stomach gave a greedy growl. 

The hunter grinned at the sound, nose scrunched up and eyes crinkling at the corners. He took his own seat and reached for the large wooden spoon, serving up the pasta with restrained pride. Peter's eyes followed the movement as he picked up his own spoon and laid a napkin across his lap.

"So," he said as he scooped up a bite. "This is what you've been hiding in that secret wall compartment of yours?"

"Mmhm." Chris cracked open the sodas and handed one over. 

Peter raised a brow. "Any particular reason you've decided to share your clandestine feast with little old me? Is it my birthday?"

"No," Chris intoned to his plate, not looking up yet. "It's a date." He took a breath and glanced upward to catch the reaction to his statement.

To an untrained eye, the werewolf's expression wouldn't appear to change at all, but the hunter caught the hitch in Peter's breath, the slight widening of his eyes before he schooled himself and let an easy grin slide into place. 

"Well, color me flattered."

Chris shook his head in fond amusement and watched out of the corner of his eye as his companion took his first bite. 

The moan that rumbled through Peter's throat at the taste of creamy, buttery sauce and pasta, his eyes rolling under fluttering lids, had Chris crossing his legs under the desk and mentally disassembling and reassembling his favorite handgun over and over in an effort to stave off an immediate erection. It worked for a while... long enough for him to cram a few bites of macaroni into his mouth and chew furiously. He swallowed mechanically, risked a glance up to see Peter's tongue swipe across his lips, catching a dab of white sauce at the corner of his mouth. _Oh for fuck's sake._  

Peter's eyes flicked open, pupils dilating and nostrils flaring and the hunter had only a split second to think _Oh god you idiot of course he can smell your arousal what were you thinking_ before the werewolf was standing, shoving his chair back and actually physically leaping over the desk to land in a very startled Chris' lap. Before the human could make any sort of protest at the sudden weight, Peter had his fingers curled into his hair, mouth hot against his throat forming the words, "You know what, as it turns out I'm not all that hungry." He licked a stripe up the hunter's neck and ground against him, making him shudder. "You?"

Chris made a strangled sound that hopefully resembled the correct response, and Peter chuckled low and dangerous. "Good."

The werewolf nosed his way under Chris' angular jaw, one hand sliding down to tug the threadbare shirt from the hunter's belt and find tanned skin. Chris squirmed in his seat, his own hands slowly rising to grip at Peter's hips, fingers digging into the firm meat of his ass. If he hadn't been so thoroughly distracted by his gyrating lapful of werewolf, he'd have been embarrassed by the fact that he was already half-hard in his pants. He felt Peter nip at his chin, and he tilted his head to catch the other man's lower lip in his teeth. He heard and felt Peter groan against him, and decided that it was time to move from the chair to the bed. 

They stood with some difficulty (thanks to Peter's stubborn refusal to detach from his lap) and maneuvered their way to Chris' bunk. Unfortunately, the beds at the camp weren't built with couples in mind, and there was some awkwardness as they settled onto the mattress, ending up with Peter pinned and Chris astride his hips. Chris rolled into him slowly, letting the werewolf yank his shirt over his head. He knew better than to grab Peter's wrists and pin them; it was still early in their "relationship" to start addressing the feral fear that burned behind Peter's eyes when he felt trapped. Instead he slipped his palms up under the other man's shirt, feeling the taut muscles shudder underneath his touch. He bent down, sucked at the spot behind Peter's ear until the werewolf moaned and thrust up against him, and he let out a pleased sound of his own at the discovery that he wasn't the only one ready and raring to go.

"I can feel you, Peter," he rumbled into the ear he'd been nuzzling. "I can feel how hard you're getting. What do you want, hmm? Want me to taste you? Want to fuck me?" He rolled his hips again, bit Peter's earlobe. "Or maybe just this? Just like this until we both come?"

"Chris, Jesus fuck-" Peter's chest was heaving with every breath, his eyes unfocused. "Just fucking get inside me, please god-"

The request (demand, really) came as a bit of a surprise, but Chris was absolutely onboard with the idea. He fumbled blindly for the massage oil and condoms on his nightstand (an entirely unsubtle 'gift' from Stiles) and used his other hand to yank at Peter's belt until it came free, letting the werewolf shimmy out of his pants and underwear. Chris shuffled back on the bed until he was kneeling between Peter's legs, the werewolf looking up at him with a crooked smile that, for once, was all genuine fond openness, no trace of deceit or wariness. The hunter ran his fingertips down the inside of one thigh, leaned in to kiss and bite his way up the same path until his nose was brushing the base of Peter's cock and the skin under his lips was ridden with tremors. 

"Chris..."

Instead of looking up or responding verbally, Chris ran his tongue up the shaft once, quick, before ducking down and pressing a wet kiss to the tight clench of skin below. Peter made a wordless, inhuman sound, and his body jolted like it had been shocked again. Chris buried his mouth there, lapping and sucking and breathing hot puffs against Peter until he opened up under the assault of tongue-fucking, panting and whining against the pillows. Working with one hand, Chris got his fingers into the oil and pressed a thumb against Peter's entrance, feeling him writhe as it popped in. He withdrew it, worked in two long fingers and paused to pour more oil onto them before adding a third. Peter squirmed and made all sorts of interesting noises the whole time, and when Chris started sucking a hickey into his inner thigh he finally gave in and grabbed at the hunter, begging incoherently. 

Chris took pity on him at last, climbing out of his own pants and briefs before tearing open a condom and rolling it on. He filled his palm with oil, slicked himself as thoroughly as he could, and settled his weight down onto Peter, his hips working in little movements until the head of his erection was nudging at Peter's hole. The werewolf moaned, rocked his hips down to meet Chris' thrusts, then gasped at the pressure as he was slowly filled. Cautiously, he lifted his arms and wound them around Chris, squeezed his waist in encouragement until he started a deep, grinding rhythm inside him, making them both groan. 

"God, Peter," Chris dropped his head into the crook of his lover's shoulder, hips working faster and faster. "You feel..."

Peter dug his fingernails into the hunter's spine, mouthing at his temple and breathing the scent of his sweat and lust. "More," he insisted, and Chris happily obeyed. 

It had been a long time for both of them, and it became quickly apparent that neither could hold out for much longer. Their movements became more and more frantic, clutching at each other with tangled limbs and tongues, and their breathing dissolving into ragged, moan-lined gasps. Chris had just enough coherent thought to reach between them and fist Peter's arousal as his own climax built, grinning in blissed-out victory when he felt the werewolf come seconds before he did.  

They lay immersed in each other for a long while, their chests pressed together as they panted against each other's skin. Eventually, a boneless and exhausted Chris slid out and disposed of the condom, and when he turned back to the bed he saw Peter watching him with a poorly-hidden look of hesitance. "Should I, uh..." The werewolf gestured toward his own bunk, the camp bed across the cabin. 

Chris huffed as he switched off the light and shook his head, crawling back into his bed and curling up around the other man (he was an unashamed cuddler, always had been). Peter let out a low rumble of content and burrowed his feet under the blankets that had been kicked to the bottom of the mattress. Outside, an owl called out, and a few crickets sang under the window. The meal cooled on their makeshift table, and the gibbous moon cloaked their bodies in silvery white as they slept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good lord I am happy to be posting this; I finished it today because the internet on my campus was down for a good twelve hours.


End file.
